


Communal

by littletownblues



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: (But only the first chapter), Cowboy synths, Danse-Centric, Gen, Non-Important OCs - Freeform, POV First Person, Platonic Relationships, Post-Canon, Tags and Rating will update as fic does, The Institute (Fallout)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-30
Updated: 2020-11-06
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:00:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27287542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littletownblues/pseuds/littletownblues
Summary: A series of ficlets with an overarching story. Tags will be updated, and there will be two 'Main Cast' Ocs. Not essential, but there and have their roles. Won't be shipping with them :)EDIT: I lied, I am but it's pretty lowkey and as far as is written one sided.
Relationships: Danse & X6-88, Nick Valentine & Original Character(s), Paladin Danse & Original Character(s), Preston Garvey & Original Character(s), Strong & Original Character(s)
Kudos: 2





	1. Brevity

**Author's Note:**

> A short introduction to Moby, my first OC who will be in this. Hope you enjoy :)

Sanctuary Communal Terminals  
Personal Logs  
MOBY

Password: ********************  
[User Authorised]

25/8/2290

12:52  
Little is left of the institute but bad memories and the distinctly crater-shaped cut out its destruction left. The Ex-Director turned on it; an abomination so horrid its own master couldn’t stand the sight of it. Dr Frankenstein and his monster seems the closest approximation, but neither plays the roles of their character well. Hubris belonged to both but it was decidedly deadly in the wrong person. Overall, a flimsy metaphor. But it doesn’t change the harsh reality of what the ex-director has done, or the sheer impact of their betrayal. Some had seen it coming; anyone outside of the institute's bubble knew whatever truce the Ex-director had called was momentary at best and a ruse at worst. It turned out to be somewhere in the middle, as most things do. 

There are still echoes of the institute left. The refugees that managed to escape, the hate of all things synthetic and the sheer paranoia of the commonwealth. The railroad rescued those they could, and the minutemen handled the evacuation for those the others in the area to the best of their ability. Casualties were still high; many perished in the flames or under the chunks of irradiated debris, synth and human alike. Possibly ghouls and mutants, too, and whatever other irradiated horrors lurked around the corners. The geography of the location was- still is- fairly foreign to me, despite me being resident there for the entirety of my life, so I cannot comment on the environmental impact.

All I know is that the crater in its entirety serves as a reminder of what was. For better or for worse, the absence of the great, looming shadow that was father and his servants is possibly even more present in the forefront of the people’s minds than it was before it was nothing. 

A few weeks previous, it was suggested to me that I begin writing. Apparently my lack of communication and general perceivable emotion are indicators of shellshock to the ex-director. I don’t fully understand what they mean by that, but I will take their advice. They seem most knowledgeable, and whether through nepotism or not, they were appointed Director. There is some merit there, however little, not to mention that I have heard that one of the courses assigned to them was impressed by their ability in the field, which is high praise. Managing to tear out an emotion from a constipated serial killer with a stick in their ass is a feat in and of itself. 

The residents here seem mostly accepting, but I have been told I don’t look human enough and that my silence is unnerving by various people. They’re all in the large migration party leaving for Starlight Drive In next week, where trade routes will be established, mostly made up of non-human refugees from the blast, but a few rather disgruntled former residents who disliked the new surge in synth residents will be leaving too. I’m tempted to start walking around naked, to fully display my inhuman qualities, but I have been dissuaded from the idea by my misplaced sense of dignity.  
Attempting to talk to the synth named Valentine about it was somewhat fruitful. A fellow second-generation synth like myself (at least in appearances), one of the few- it’s a blessing in disguise that everyone is so on edge about everything with synths and sentience. No one has questioned my sentience nor ‘personality’, or though I do see how that may be dulled by my social inactivity within the community. Valentine made a sarcastic remark about me being the ‘silent type’. It was rather funny, the way he phrased it, and I must admit he didn’t make me uncomfortable, which is a rarity. Part of me wishes I could properly speak to him, but not enough to change my silence. I doubt he would have taken kindly to my voice, anyway. He seemed rather…. Put off? That I looked so similar to him. I will investigate further into his knowledge of me, as I’m fairly certain he is aware of why we are so… similar. If not, I have to call into question his abilities to detect. 

On a separate note, I have also found that the super mutant named Strong dislikes what he labels ‘robot-men’. He is referring to synths and all robotic life forms, and yet he is not leaving with the rest of the put off crowd. It is still ‘up in the air’ as to whether it is common super mutant belief or simply Strong’s own, as my experience with super mutants is minimal and inconclusive and therefore cannot be used in my judgement.  
A more positive observation I have, however, is that many people here are aesthetically pleasing; I’m particularly fond of Mr Garvey and his hat. I will acquire one for myself, if it is possible. He seems most generous, although frequently sad. This is rather disconcerting, and I will have to monitor his condition to ensure it isn’t serious.

9:47  
I have noticed the sky. I cannot draw my eyes away.

It is ridiculously charming; the purple and violet seems explosive, and the moon is shining brighter than I have ever seen it in my short lifetime. It seems more yellow than I think I could have ever guessed. I thought a pearl might be comparable to it, but the more that I stare up at it the more I realise it is incomparable. The craters and scars litter the surface, making it scarred in its entirety but still somehow and perfect, if anything adding personality. 

The stars surrounding it look like they’re practically being drawn in, gravitating towards it’s magnetic beauty. There are no clouds; the rays of the full moon have evaporated them, leaving behind a foggy runway for the full roundness to emerge through. 

Reflecting upon myself in this moment, a quote comes to mind. “As for me, I am tormented with an everlasting itch for things remote.” 

How far is it to the moon?


	2. Late Nights

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Danse remembers.

It was late night, the two moving through the shadows as silently as possible. The repurposed pieces of power armour were muffled by the thick layers of the winter coat Danse had pulled on over them, strong frame even more accentuated than normal. Moby was in more simple wear, sturdy leather pieces (minus the crotch, he had no need for it and it was tacky to say the least) over a baggy flannel shirt he had borrowed off of Danse, half tucked into slightly less baggy blue jeans he had been wearing since sanctuary, barely held up by a makeshift belt. Both men looked battered and beaten- Danse more so, looking much more human and having taken the brunt of most of the conflict. 

3 years, it had been, since the institute was destroyed. Almost exactly now- Moby had been keeping count, and regularly scribbled down the date of the anniversary when he could. His memory banks greatly exceeded that of a real second generation synth, but it was an ever present fear he would wake up one day and just forget. He had seen it happen- entire lifetimes stripped away.   
Danse hadn’t seen any of that- but he understood well enough. At the very least, he was on board with the idea of reminding himself- and Moby- that the institute was gone. It wasn’t coming back. The people of the commonwealth didn’t have to fear it anymore, and while it still definitely lingered, the strained paranoia surrounding it had dispersed at least somewhat. In a way, Danse almost thought that was dangerous- letting the institute be out of sight and out of mind might be all the welcome the small, fractured remnants of it needed to come crawling back together. But it was a sentiment he never shared. 2 years of travel had done something to him- softened him up but also hardened him. He was far removed from the life of the average person again, but this time in a way Danse thought might actually count for something. An almost faceless helper, someone the people could ask for assistance when they needed it without the same hang ups they might have about asking a friend. At least, that was what Danse hoped he came across as. 

When he wasn’t doing errands or tasks for locals and small groups here and there, he was usually sent to a settlement or on a supply run on behalf of the general, despite the fact he had resigned himself from the minutemen.

For the first year after the fallout of the destruction of the institute, things were different. He had been at sanctuary- training and helping the minutemen there, as a real member, like he had been since everything with the brotherhood.   
It was a different organisation to how it was then. Hell, he had even been invited back. And he had even considered, however briefly going back. The thought made a small, low chuckle leave him now.

The first time Danse had left the minutemen bubble, it was a late night impulse. X6-88, a courser who had also been evacuated, had taken up residence in the vault on the hill. 111, if he remembered correctly. Danse had worried about the synth’s (the man’s, he had reminded himself at the time) safety, not aware of him having come out to take any rations or even basic necessities. Apparently, the facility had been wiped clean of any possible resources, and the general had described the place horrifically. It was definitely driven by their own bad memories of the place, but it still must have been bad. Those places creeped him out at the best of times. 

The most distinct thing he could recall was the bitter cold, and the splinters of wood from that rickety old bridge digging into his bare feet. He looked like a man possessed- a torn up white t-shirt and loose pair of dirty sweats, stalking forward bare foot and weaponless under moonlight. Something unamed and coiled tight fuelled him, blue tinged fingers and toe tips stiff in place. His stomach churned slightly, body trying to give him all kinds of warning- you’re going after a courser, you’re unarmed, it's freezing- but his head wouldn’t take any, a pure vacuum of any kind of comprehensible thought. 

A shaky hand slowly pressed down the red button, watching for a few long seconds before slowly making his way over to stand on it. 

His first impressions were, well. It wasn’t horrible. Bright, overly so, and the moving platform was slightly disconcerting but it wasn’t anything that registered strongly. Simply looking around, the man he was looking for wasn’t there- so he kept going. Somewhere, some part of him recoiled in absolute disgust at the fact he had just stepped on the rotting corpse of a radroach. The stench was strong, and he had definitely been exposed to radiation- however minimal- but he kept on going, not recognising it at the forefront of his mind.

Lips sealed shut by the cold, he felt them slowly tear apart as he raised his hoarse voice. “X-X-Siiixx?” He called out, feeling the vibrations of his chattering teeth echo around his skull. “eig-eighty eight?” he tacked on, just as loud. Getting a good view of the room he was coming up on, he absently came to the conclusion this was the freezing room- the open pods suggested this was the room the general had managed to clear out. Their graves were situated by sanctuary, and occasionally him, the general, and a few others would go and pay their respects. The second room had yet to be cleared out, and Danse had put it on his to do. The general seemed far too shaken up to do anything of the sort, and Danse didn't blame them. 

Lost in thought, the fair few radroaches that had started biting at him were lost to the depths of his mind. The glow of a few caught his eyes, but that was as much as he could register.

A good twenty minutes passed as he slowly searched through the vault, eventually coming across what looked to be a canteen, with an ensuite bathroom. Boxes were stacked up on the long table, rations Danse recognised at sanctuary’s own carefully organised. Stumbling forward, he picked a box up, examining it over. He didn’t know what he was looking for until he saw it- a name. Scribbled on in thick, red marker, an indicator of who exactly these rations had belonged to. Jon, Howard, Garvey, Strong, Lisa- He had balls to take from her. The last time anyone had so much as came in Lisa’s vicinity they had a heavily modded, barbed shotgun shoved in their faces, regardless of species. Strong, too, he supposed- but Strong mostly just stockpiled his rations in the corner of his ‘room’, (it was a small wooden shack the general had forgotten they even built) so the fact that X6 had managed to snag a few didn’t surprise him. 

So enraptured in the various food items, he didn’t notice the courser himself coming up behind him. The last thing Danse remembered of that night was the blunt pain of something knocking him out from behind.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed! Kudos or comments are always very, very welcome. Open too Constructive Criticism too!


End file.
